If the Pope is Right

When an honest atheist of conscience dies, perhaps he finds

himself inside such inky blackness that he smiles and thinks 

See? I was right! and lacks the motivation to stretch what still 

must be his legs and arms, for if he did, he'd find the edges of

the box he sits inside, which sits in grassy meadow.

Millennia may pass before the weight of healing flowers

on a vine that grows around the corners bends them just

enough that light appears inside, a pin-sized unseen sun 

allowing just a hint of breeze, sudden fragrance wafting 

into box which makes him sneeze and when he does, 

his elbow hits the wall, which shatters into shards of glass 

so tiny that the wind can carry them away before they cut him, 

and he's standing there, in grassy meadow with the sunlight

shining down, eyes closed, still convinced that all is darkness.

But he wonders what's that smell? And when a petal falls

upon his arm, he looks before remembering there's

nothing there to see, and smiles again, this time because

he understands that he was wrong. Lungs breathe deeply,

taking in the sweetest air he could imagine, and he nods,

and sets off for a walk on somewhat shaky feet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013